The Prodigal Mage: Fisherman’s Children Book One (33 page)

Even as he walked away from the dais a handful of Olken crowded in to take his place. Pellen greeted ’em cordially and they fell into eager discussion. Heading for the nearest door to take him outside, Asher found himself waylaid by Eylin Cross, no longer on the Mage Council but still a woman of influence. Hovering behind her were Nan Mortley of the Shepherds’ Guild.

“Asher,” said Eylin in her brisk, no-nonsense way, “bide a moment. Nan needs a word with you about her suit in Justice Hall.”

He raised both hands. “Now, Eylin, you
know
I ain’t to talk on what’s upcoming afore—”

“Trust me,” said Eylin grimly. “And make an exception for this.”

Eylin weren’t the flighty type. If she said it were important, if she thought to press him on it here at Pellen’s farewell ball, then… “All right.”
Rafel, you’d better keep y’self out of mischief
. “We’ll step aside and you can tell me quick what’s amiss.”

Escaped from the Guildhouse, from the overbright glimlight and laughter and warmth, from Charis, Rafel turned his face to the starstruck sky. Out here, in the small but lush Guildhouse garden, clipped grass beneath his feet, fragrant flowers in profusion around him, a cool breeze flirting like a lass with his hair, he could breathe slow and deep. Breathe out every last skerrick of tension and frustration and sorrow.

Uncle Pellen looks so poorly. And Fernel bloody Pintte—he can’t even pretend to be sorry. No wonder Da hates him. How’d he ever get made mayor?

Mama and Da, they pretended their old friend was fine. But he wasn’t Asher of Restharven’s son for nothing. He felt what he felt, and what he felt made his chest hurt. Other things made it hurt too, but tonight Pellen’s wan face and weary eyes and fallen flesh hurt the most.

And Charis, bloody Charis, dancing like a whirligig. Chatter, chatter, chatter like there was nowt wrong.
When Papa’s better, Rafe, we’re going to travel round Lur a bit. When Papa’s better, we’re going to plant a new garden. When Papa’s better…
When a blind man could see Pellen was an ailing man and she was fooling herself.

Even so, you couldn’t stop yourself from looking at her, could you?

Fretted raw, he could feel his magic simmering inside him. Wanted more than anything, so strong he could
taste
it, to lash out and break something. Crack stones. Shatter glass. Smash the Guildhouse garden’s djelbas to splinters. Pull the stars from the sky.

Aye, and wouldn’t that prove Da right and me at fault?

“Rafel… ?”

He didn’t turn. Didn’t have to. “Go back inside, Deenie. I don’t want company just now.”

“Oh. All right. If you want. Only…”

The hurt in her voice stoked his anger. “Ain’t no
only,
Deenie. There’s just you being a nuisance. As usual. Go away.”

“I will. I will, except—” Her voice was unsteady. Still hurt, but stubborn too. And wasn’t that his sister in a nutshell? “Rafe, you’re stirred up. All hot and gnarly inside. I can feel it.”

He threw her a burning look over his shoulder. “Good for you. Now, unless you want to
see
it,
go away
.”

“You don’t have to be mean,” she said. “There’s no call to be mean.”

“Ain’t no call for you to stickybeak in my business, either, but here you are anyway. Stickybeaking.”

“Fine,” said Deenie. “Burn yourself up, then. See if I care.”

He listened to her stamp back into the Guildhouse, where music played and folk danced, most of them celebrating. He’d tried to pretend happiness too, but the lie wore him out. For all that Pellen Orrick was years older than Da and Mama, for all he’d been their friend before they were married, somehow, slowly, he’d become their son’s friend too.

Like ole Darran was. An ear to listen. A shoulder to lean on. Someone who knows what Da’s like, and doesn’t always take his side
.

And he needed that, ’cause though he loved his father, sometimes Da could be bloody hard work. Like with his magic. He was so bloody
tired
of having to hide his Doranen power, like these were the old days and Barl’s First Law still ruled. What did it
matter
if the Doranen knew he was like Da? Not once his whole life had his parents given him an answer. All they did was boss him, and expect him to obey. The way Da carried on, it was clear he was
ashamed
. Ashamed of the son who’d inherited his gift.

As though it’s my fault. As though I did something wrong.

So did that mean he had to leave home? Find a new place to live, and busywork that would keep a roof over his head while he learned for himself the true extent of his Doranen magic? He didn’t want to. Him leaving like that would break Mama’s heart. But Da wasn’t giving him much of a choice.

’Cause it’s my bloody life and I’ll live it how I want.

Footsteps behind him.
“Deenie!”
he said, still not turning. “Sink me,
why
can’t you—”

“Deenie?” A soft, unpleasant laugh. “So much for the oft-vaunted Olken talent for sensing things.”

Swallowing a curse, Rafel turned. The garden’s dim glimlight showed him silvergilt hair, and flamboyant striped silk, and a smile that had nowt to do with friendship. And suddenly he was a sprat again, facing down his bitter enemy in the school yard… or the street.

“What’s the matter, Arlin?” he said, with sweetly false sympathy. “Won’t any of the girls dance with you?”

“I’ve got the pick of any girl in there,” said Arlin, eyes narrowing. “Even your drab little sister, Rafel. If I snapped my fingers—”

“Try it,” he advised. “Go on. Then see how sorry you are. You muck about with Deenie and I’ll show you some Olken magic. Maybe I’ll show you—”

“Now, now,” said Da, stepping out of the shadows. “Settle down there, Rafe. You lost your sense of humour, sprat? Arlin’s teasing, is all. He knows better than to start a brangle over a lass. Not with me, any road. Not when it’s my lass.”

Arlin’s mocking smile vanished. “Meister Asher.” He took a step back—did he realise it?—and folded his arms. “You must’ve misheard. Me, interested in an Olken girl? Hardly. I’ve got my standards.”

“Rafe,” Da said, one hand lifting. “Let be. Not every man can hold his drink like a man. Show a little pity for them as can’t.”

He couldn’t trust himself to speak. Could only feel some small, passing pleasure at Arlin’s tight-lipped anger and bite his tongue, hard. And feel pleasure, too, knowing that for years he’d stolen spells from Arlin, and never once did Arlin suspect. He’d never understood it, how Arlin could be so arrogant about his magic when as far as he could tell, Garrick was no better a mage than any other Doranen.

“Reckon you might want to make y’self scarce, young lord,” Da suggested kindly. “Have a sit down somewhere till you be sober again. Wouldn’t like to see you so het up you puked your guts over that fancy clobber of yours, eh?”

“Meister Asher,” said Arlin, after a tense moment. “Rafel.” He favoured them both with a curt nod then made a hasty, undignified retreat.

“Poxy little shit,” said Da, watching him go.

Still not trusting himself, Rafel grunted.

Da stared at him. “
Now
what are you fratched at, Rafe?”

“Wasn’t any call for you to step in, Da,” he said tightly. “I don’t need help with the likes of Arlin Garrick.”

Da’s eyebrows shot up. “No?”

“No!” he said, nigh on shouting. “All you did poking your nose in was—was—”
Make me look a fool. Make me feel small and useless
. “Da, I didn’t need your help.”

“Oh, aye?” Da snapped back. “So you’re sayin’ you weren’t about to lose that fine temper of yours and try magickin’ the little sea-slug into the middle of next week?”

It smarted that Da could read him so easily. “So what if I was? He was smearing on Deenie!”

“Aye, but if Deenie never hears of it Deenie won’t be hurt, will she?” Da retorted. “And how’s branglin’ with Rodyn Garrick’s sprat goin’ to manage that, Rafel? Do things your way and
everyone
would bloody know!”

Why didn’t Da understand? Why wasn’t he
angry?
“The likes of Arlin Garrick didn’t ought to get away with saying muck about whoever they want!”

“Oh,
Rafe
.” Da shook his head. “The likes of Arlin Garrick’s a
Doranen,
you young fool. Hundreds of years they been arrogant shits. Reckon they’re goin’ to stop bein’ ’emselves any time soon?”

“They won’t stop being themselves till we make them, Da. Nowt’ll change if we don’t stand up to them.”

“Things have changed already,” said Da, impatient. “You just be too young to see it. And they’ll change more. But it takes time, Rafe, so while you be waitin’ you got to learn to walk away. No good’ll come of stirrin’ things up.
’Specially
not with magic. Not while we be stuck here with ’em like cats and dogs in a barrel.”

“Then maybe Fernel Pintte’s right,” he muttered, still hotly smarting. “Could be it’s past time we showed them the door.”

“Rafel
…
”
Da turned away, hand rubbing over his face, then swung back again. “You’d side with Pintte? At Pellen’s farewell you’d—”

“Aye, Da, I would!” he retorted. “If Pintte’s right, then I—”

Without warning, the balls of glimfire dotted round the small Guildhouse garden flared and spluttered. Belched eye-stinging, throat-catching smoke.

“Sink me,” said Da, his head snapping up. “Rafe, d’you feel that? D’you feel—”

And beneath their feet, in the deep earth, Lur groaned.

Startled cries came from inside the Guildhouse. Through its many windows Rafel saw fits and bursts of light as the golden glimfire beneath the rafters surged and spat bright sparks.

The waves of unease in the earth rolled higher and harder. Turning, Rafel saw his own shock and sickness reflected in his father’s face.

“Da? What’s this? I thought—”

“Aye, Rafe, so did I,” said Da. He sounded strange, almost
frighted
. But that couldn’t be right. “Come on,” he said, starting towards the Guildhouse. “Let’s find your ma and sister.”

“Asher!”
said Mama, catching sight of them, her voice lifting over the hubbub. Folk inside the Guildhouse milled and gabbled, crying out as the balls of glimfire sizzled and bounced. Even the Doranen looked shocked, standing together in little groups whispering and staring accusingly at the Olken guests. But Mama paid no heed to that, she shoved her way through the anxious throng, ignoring the folk who yelped and glared.

When she reached them Da caught her in a swift hug. “Where’s Deenie?”

Mama’s face was milky pale, her dark eyes wide. “She’s with Goose,” she said, her voice breathless.
She
sounded frighted. “Over there, in the corner.” Pulling one hand free, she pointed.

Reassured, Da nodded. “Pellen? And Charis?”

“I’m sure they’re fine too. Asher—”

“I don’t know, Dath,” said Da, still holding her tight. “Let’s talk on it at home. Rafe—”

He clasped his father’s shoulder. “Aye, Da, don’t fret. I’ll fetch Deenie.”

Da spared him a swift, strained smile. “Good sprat.”

For once, he didn’t mind being called a child.

Leaving his parents he made his way round the edge of the dance floor, trying not to flinch as the glimfire spat more stinging sparks. Trying not to groan out loud as the waves of wrongness surged and shifted beneath his unsteady feet. He hadn’t felt this in ten years. His head was spinning, pins and needles in his blood. Many of the Olken who only moments ago had been laughing and dancing, they were feeling it too. He heard their moans, saw their fear, watched them clutch at each other. Watched the tears of fright trickle down their cheeks.

If he wasn’t bloody careful, he could weep with fright himself.

“Rafel!
Rafe!
”

And that was Goose, safe in a corner with Deenie huddled against him. His sister wasn’t crying but she shook like a flower in a windstorm, even with Goose’s strong arm around her.

“Hey,” he said, joining them. “You all right?”

Goose had sprung up and filled out so much this last year, Deenie looked like a little girl beside him even though she was a young woman now. “Fine,” he said, nodding. “But you’re not, are you? Rafe…” His eyes were bleak. “Is this—”

“The riverpond? Aye,” he said shortly, as his belly churned and heaved. “Hush up, eh? Deenie—”

His sister turned her pinched face towards him. “What’s happening, Rafe?” she whispered. “I feel so bad. Lur feels bad. I don’t understand, I thought—” Then she cried out, and she wasn’t the only one, as another enormous wave of wrongness ripped through the earth, the air, through the blood and bones of most Olken in the room.

And outside the Guildhouse, the night was deafened by thunder.

“Rafe!”
said Goose, as Deenie pressed her face into his fine brocade weskit. “Can you stop this?”

More thunder roared, like a rock-slide. Then screams and shouts as the Guildhouse glimfire extinguished in a shower of sparks and the room plunged black. A heartbeat later it lit up again in jagged fits as spears of blue-white lightning seared and sizzled the dark.